


Which break themselves in swearing

by middlemarch



Category: Bridgerton (TV), Bridgerton Series - Julia Quinn
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Family, Letters, Oaths & Vows, Romance, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:41:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29891652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: Simon knew about promises. Daphne knew about secrets.
Relationships: Daphne Bridgerton/Simon Basset
Comments: 20
Kudos: 55





	Which break themselves in swearing

“I made a vow to my father on his deathbed that his line would end with me,” Simon said. He’d uttered each word as if it were another vow, one he was binding her within like a spider trapping its prey. Daphne wished there were not such a distance between them, that they sat across from each other in the soft light of the morning room, Simon’s hand within reach; she would have touched him lightly before she spoke. She understood more than he knew and now she must find a way to tell him what he could never have known—revelation and freedom, the poles inverted, the moon rising in the East.

“Simon, do you know the story of the cuckoo in the nest?” she asked.

“Daphne?”

“The cuckoo lays its egg in another bird’s nest, you see,” she said. Would he see? He hadn’t made an irritated retort or cutting remark but he pressed his lips together tightly and there was hardly any light in his dark eyes.

“Daphne, there’s no time for this,” he said. He didn’t say for this nonsense though she heard what it cost him to keep from it. She smoothed one hand along the silk of her gown, let herself recall the scent of the dust, the roughness of the cotton cloths she’d flung back from the chair. How brittle the old sealing wax had been and somehow still imbued with its vivid hue.

“I found letters in the desk. The Duchess’s desk,” she said. When he was silent, she added, “Your mother’s. I did not mean to pry but I admit, I was curious.”

“What of it? I fail to see how this pertains to what I told you just now,” he said. Lady Danbury would likely have scolded him for it and Anthony would have cursed, but she was his wife.

“They were bundled together with a blue silk ribbon,” Daphne said. “I thought they must be precious, love letters, billet-doux. I thought I would see how a Duchess wrote to a Duke.”

“You meant to make a lesson of it?” he asked.

“No. Maybe a little. But they weren’t what I expected,” she said.

“I can’t imagine my father encouraged any paeans or romantic encomiums,” Simon said. “He wasn’t a man given to poetry or pretty words.”

“They weren’t addressed to him,” Daphne said.

“You must be mistaken—”

“I was not. I am not. Your mother wrote to someone she cared for, dearly, someone she trusted with her honor, her heart, her deepest desires,” Daphne said. “Your father.”

“You’re talking in circles, Daphne! You just said the letters weren’t addressed to him and now you are and I fail to see what any of this has to do with what I told you,” Simon exclaimed.

“Your father wasn’t the Duke of Hastings, Simon. Your mother took a lover. You are the cuckoo in the nest,” Daphne said, as simply as she could. He might shout, might stalk out of the room, or lower his voice to a whispered hiss to express the most furious imprecations, but she would stay quite still, quite steady in the face of it. None of it could touch her; she only spoke the truth.

“I can’t believe it,” he said. _It_ , not you. He looked away, his gaze focused somewhere she could not follow, for what seemed like a long time. She thought back to the letters, the Duchess’s elegant hand and the even more exquisite script of her lover, how ardent the missives had been and yet so tender, so passionate and yet so practical, the planning of the assignations, the carefully guarded hope that an embrace would lead to conception, the fervent shared wish for a child. She thought back to taking tea with Mrs. Colson, the woman’s voice as she’d said sometimes it’s not the woman’s fault.

“It’s true,” Daphne said. “You are the heir to the Duke of Hastings but you are not his son.”

“Did he know? Did he guess? It that why he treated me so cruelly?” Simon asked, a little wild. She couldn’t blame him.

“I cannot imagine he did. The letters seemed entirely untouched, the ribbon knotted tight. There was dust on them a half an inch thick, it gave me the most undignified sneezing fit,” Daphne said. “I cannot believe he thought you anything other than his son. But that is not who you are.”

“Not who I am,” Simon repeated.

“You are the Duke of Hastings,” she said. “You are Simon Basset, the Duke of Hastings and your honor is intact. You had already fulfilled your vow when you made it. You ended his line.”

There was a silence between them then, one they shared. _My soul seeks after yours_ , the Duchess had written to her lover and Daphne understood what her husband’s mother meant. She thought the other woman would have been glad to know her only child, conceived in such a secret love, was so proudly, openly cherished. 

“If there is no vow to honor—”

“Then you must choose what it is you want. For yourself. For us,” Daphne said. She wanted a child, children, a house-full or even just one, but he’d been so adamant. She would not assume, she would not keep quiet when she could ask. When she could begin as she meant to go on, remembering what had drawn them together, their talks in ballrooms and gardens, promenades paced by his remarks, her comments, their laughter.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I know what you want me to say—”

“I just want you to be honest, Simon. Truly. There’s nothing else to want if we don’t have that first,” she said.

“I want a bloody brandy,” he said, making her smile.

“I want to read those letters,” he added, making her nod.

“And I want you there with me, your Grace,” he finished, making her cry, just a little. “You see, I made a vow…”

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Antony and Cleopatra, William Shakespeare
> 
> I truly thought the show was going to go here. Oh well...


End file.
